


Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again

by TheBrideOfTheWind



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Snowball Fight, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9675878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrideOfTheWind/pseuds/TheBrideOfTheWind
Summary: Murphy and Bellamy have a snowball fight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> At first, I wanted to write a piece where Murphamy see snow for the first time, then the 100 ruined it and this happened. I didn't even deem myself capable of writing pure fluff and domesticity, but here it is. Not that much happens. So, I'm sorry if it's boring...
> 
> The title is a quote from Lewis Carroll's “Through the Looking-Glass”:
> 
> “I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”

“Look, Bellamy,” Murphy yells, jumping on the bed, barely able to contain his excitement. The mattress creaks protestingly under this unwelcome weight and he nearly loses his balance and tumbles over. Bellamy is still wrapped up in not one, but two blankets – he gets cold easily – while Murphy's side is already scattered with chocolate cookie crumbs, a dog-eared book and a checkered pyjama top with a hole lying on top of his sheet. 

On his nightstand several items are carelessly spread: two dirty mugs, one half filled with a dubious looking liquid, three more books, an alarm clock that projects the bat signal on the ceiling, a crumpled notebook and a gnawed pencil, a framed photo of him and Emori beaming into the camera, a sock – most probably worn – and the box of the aforementioned chocolate cookies. His own blanket is nowhere to be seen. If somebody put two and two together, he might come to the conclusion that Bellamy's second blanket could be Murphy's missing one, but that's another story.

“What is it?” Bellamy groans, face rumpled and voice still thick with sleep.

“Looooook!” Murphy repeats, now more insistent, and points outside the window as if pointing at things would improve Bellamy's ability to see them any clearer. It's still dim and kind of foggy, and for the love of God, he can't see shit.

“I can't see anything,” he replies, taking his glasses from his own clean and tidy nightstand and putting them on. He squints his eyes, but still can't make out anything.

“Look closer,” Murphy urges him, still eager, but now slowly but surely getting impatient with his incapacity. 

“Can't you just tell me why you're so over the moon? What's all the fuss about?” Bellamy begs and hides a yawn behind his hand.

“No, I can't,” Murphy pouts and tries to drag him out of the bed. “That would ruin all the fun.”

“Fine,” Bellamy complies while he follows him into the living room, his bare feet pitter-pattering on the cool wooden floor. They stop in front of their backyard window, and there, in the soft morning light, he can finally see it. Their small garden and the other gardens around are all covered with a white layer, like they're enveloped in a thick cotton blanket, the snow weighting down the branches, the trees and bushes glittering with ice crystals. 

“It snew? That's what was so important you needed to wake me up?” he asks, because yes, he likes snow, but not _that_ much.

“It snew? It snew?” Murphy mimics him and throws his hands up exasperatedly. “Is this even a word? Or did you just make it up?”

“Excuse me, I didn't?” Bellamy replies, trying to stifle a laugh, but failing miserably. “You can look it up! It's under sn like snivel.”

“More sn like snob,” Murphy sneers. “Bet it's one of those antiquated words nobody but you uses anymore.” Bellamy just chuckles in response. 

“I thought maybe we could go out for a nice walk, but I changed my mind. Screw the walk. We're going for a snowball fight. Hand-to-hand. No rules. No restraints. And don't even try your puppy dog eyes on me, Blake, cause I am going to destroy you!”

“Fine, but let's have breakfast first, please?” Bellamy pleads, using said puppy dog eyes. It works, although he has to cook the scrambled eggs himself. Murphy's always taste like water and despair.

 

The snow is still falling when they finally go outside, feathery flakes dancing around them, tangling in their eyelashes, melting in the heat of their cheeks.

Like Murphy announced, it's not really a snow fight as a melee, the long, tubular garden reducing their ability to move to a minimum. Bellamy, like many other times distracted by the way his boyfriend looks in the cold – cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, lips rosy, like a baroque painting – is far too lenient and negligent to actually be a threat. Murphy, on the other hand, always taking games seriously, shows no mercy, first and foremost targeting Bellamy's face and showering his back and head with snow. 

In a sad attempt to appear tough and serious, too, Bellamy aims at Murphy's head and throws the snowball with careful precision, when Murphy ducks, and at the same time, the old lady that lives next to them enters her backyard, the niveous missile hitting her right into her cute, wrinkled old-lady-face. 

“Shiiit,” Murphy murmurs and inhales sharply, then looks at Bellamy, the latter's mouth forming a surprised O. A second later, at least Murphy is quick to think and react, pointing to the nearest bush to seek cover from their neighbour's impending wrath. 

“I think there's no need to hide, she's already seen us,” Bellamy whispers into Murphy's ear. He shushes him with a wink of his hand.

“I can see your footprints in the snow, you know,” a voice says, sweet as honey and not too far away. The crunching of the snow resounds noisily in the silent winter air. Muffled steps approach. Closer and closer. Suddenly the noise stops. Very close. Precariously close. Murphy shivers slightly then takes a gloved hand to grab Bellamy's, almost crushing it.

“Mr. Blake, Mr. Murphy, what are you doing behind that bush?” The voice says, so close they can hear her heavy breathing. They stumble to their feet, still clasping each other's hands, the old lady glaring at them, just mere inches away on the other side of the fence. Both look at her sheepishly, while she carefully removes a last remnant of snow from her perfectly white, perfectly coiffed bun. 

“My sincerest apologies, Mrs. Collins,” Bellamy stammers, hanging his head in shame, catching Murphy parroting him from the corner of his eye. He nudges him with his elbow. 

“Ah, there's no need to apologize Mr. Blake, but maybe you could help me look for my dentures, I'm afraid you knocked them out and my eyes aren't what they used to be anymore,” she mumbles, hiding her apparently toothless mouth between her hand.

He freezes in shock, groping for words, glancing back and forth between Murphy and the old woman, till the two of them explode with roaring laughter, him nearly falling over his own feet, her presenting him a row of perfect white teeth.

“Don't be mad, Bell,” Murphy says between giggles, “but your face was priceless. Can't believe you would do this to the nice old lady.”

“I can't believe you would do this to me,” he complains under his breath and demonstratively rolls his eyes at him. In response, Murphy smears another hand full of snow over his face.

“Oh, young love!” Mrs. Collins coos, having magically teleported to her door, without Bellamy noticing. 

He hasn't noticed the sky darkening, too, the snow falling more heavily, angry gusts of winds blowing the frosty flakes into his face. Murphy stands beside him with his mouth open, trying to catch them with his tongue. Then he says, voice low and sepulchral: “Look up. The apocalypse is close.” 

Bellamy snickers and entwines their fingers again, steering him inside. “So what, it's never been a better time to watch some disaster films...”

They decide to watch “The Day After Tomorrow”, and then all five “Ice Age” movies in a row. Bellamy, channeling the cinema spirit and being lazy about preparing a real meal, makes them nachos with cheese sauce, while Murphy falls asleep on his chest during the fourth movie. 

And by the end of the fourth movie, he doesn't even care that Murphy snores too loudly, or that his sharp elbow stabs into his gut, or about him exhaling his cheese breath directly into his face. He doesn't care about the mess he made when he entered the house, leaving a trail of dirty puddles and wet clothes behind. He doesn't care that he never hands him over his blanket willingly. Because he doesn't want it any other way.

He watches his chest heaving with every even intake of breath, his faintly fluttering eyelids iridescent in the dimness, his dark hair falling like a veil over his creamy skin. 

“Stop staring at me,” Murphy grumbles, frowning at him, and shifts the tiniest bit. 

“I'm not staring at you.”

“Yes, you are. I can't sleep when you're staring at me while I'm sleeping.”

“How would you even know that I'm staring at you while you're sleeping,” Bellamy asks curiously.

“Well, I just know. So stop it.”

“Alright,” he says and tries to start the fifth “Ice Age” movie, Murphy snuggling even closer into him, head heavy on his chest, one elbow now pressing further into his abdomen, the other one cutting off the blood supply in his right arm. He bends down a little bit and presses a soft kiss on the still visible wrinkle on his forehead. As a reward, Murphy twitches in his sleep and kicks his foot against his shin. 

His right arm slowly but steady feels – or better seems, cause he doesn't feel anything – like it's not a part of his body anymore while his full belly growls angrily. He tries to change into a more comfortable position, which earns him an unhappy noise from below. So he moves back – head on chest, elbow in stomach, arm compressed -, on cue, the nestled boy lying on him gives a pleased grunt of approval. When Murphy starts snoring again, loud enough to be heard in their whole neighbourhood, Bellamy sighs deeply, then he presses “Play” to finally start the movie, turning up the volume several notches. 

Yeah, he wouldn't want it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Don't be too harsh on my particularly vulnerable self ;-)


End file.
